


Humpty Dumpty Had a Great Fall

by charliebrown1234



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Carrying, Explosions, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26865250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234/pseuds/charliebrown1234
Summary: Crowley is a few moments too late to save Aziraphale from an explosion and has to help Aziraphale get to safety.Written for Whumptober 2020, prompt #7. Carrying
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1959883
Comments: 12
Kudos: 60





	Humpty Dumpty Had a Great Fall

**No 7. I’ve got you**

Support | **Carrying** | Enemy to Caretaker

* * *

London, 1888

“Aziraphale, look out!” 

Aziraphale turns, startled, then looks back down at the child at his feet. With an angelic miracle Crowley can feel in his teeth, the child vanishes, leaving Aziraphale completely exposed to the explosion roaring through the armory. Crowley watches as the shockwave catches Aziraphale in the side, sending him flying, and in the millisecond before the blast hits him, Crowley snaps himself away. 

He’s entombed, surrounded by crushing pressure and dirt and did he miracle himself into the ground? There’s the overwhelming pressure of Hell and then he’s - 

topside, gulping breaths of air on his hands and knees. Aziraphale, he needs to find Aziraphale. He heaves himself onto his feet, staggering closer to the roaring inferno that was once the royal armory and scanning the dusty debris for any sign of Aziraphale. There’s no sign of him where he was standing, but if he’d been thrown by the blast - 

There! A familiar form crumpled on its side, covered in dust and scorched by heat. Crowley stumbles over, shouting, “Aziraphale!” but Aziraphale doesn't move. As Crowley gets closer he can see the blood pooling under Aziraphale’s head. 

“Aziraphale, wake up,” Crowley urges, crouching and rolling Aziraphale onto his side. Oh, no, that’s far too much blood. It’s covering the side of Aziraphale’s head, and when Crowley touches the wound Aziraphale’s skull _shifts_ in a way it’s not supposed to. 

A small explosion behind them has Crowley cursing and fluttering his hands anxiously about Aziraphale’s face. What is he supposed to do? He can’t leave Aziraphale here, and he doesn’t know how to move him without doing more damage.

“Fuck!” Crowley hisses. What does he need? He needs to get somewhere safe. Why can’t he do that? Because Aziraphale’s skull is reminiscent of bloody Humpty Dumpty! 

So all he needs to do is fix Aziraphale’s skull. He can do that. No problem. It’s not like demons are completely incompatible with angels. It’ll be fine, Crowley tells himself. He’ll _make_ this work. With a deep breath, Crowley places his hand over Aziraphale’s damaged head and _wills_ Aziraphale’s skull back together. He focuses intently, funneling energy into Aziraphale’s wounds, but only a fraction gets through. Crowley focuses harder, willing away the darkness at the edge of his vision until Aziraphale’s head feels less like Humpty Dumpty and more like a newborn baby. 

“There,” Crowley pants, releasing Aziraphale’s head. “Now you need to wake up.” Nothing. Aziraphale remains as unconscious as ever, except now there’s blood dripping from his other ear. Not good. “Aziraphale, you need to wake up now!” Crowley says, tapping Aziraphale’s cheek. He spares a glance behind him, on the lookout for more explosions. 

“I can’t carry you Aziraphale, someone might see! Hell’s the one who tipped me off about this, who knows who else could be around!” He’s getting desperate, almost shaking Aziraphale. “Aziraphale, _please!_ ” 

A grey eye slides open, unfocused and dim. “Aziraphale! There you are, up and at ‘em.” Crowley is pulling at Aziraphale now, bullying him into sitting upright. Aziraphale goes white at the movement, eyes rolling, and Crowley holds Aziraphale close as the angel teeters on the edge of unconsciousness. “Stay with me,” Crowley pleads under his breath. 

Aziraphale opens his mouth, but all that comes out are raspy, uneven breaths. “We’re gonna stand now, alright angel?” Crowley says, pulling them both onto their feet. Aziraphale is quivering against Crowley, eyes half lidded and almost completely limp, and his face is only growing paler. “Stay awake, angel, just keep breathing. We’re going to get somewhere safe, and then I’ll take care of you. Just one step at a time, alright?” 

Crowley coaxes Aziraphale forward, holding him upright with Aziraphale’s arm over his shoulder and a hand fisted on the waist of Aziraphale’s jacket. The fine fabric is slippery, not meant for this kind of rough treatment, and Crowley knows that Aziraphale would be protesting if he was in his mind enough to care.

“There we go,” Crowley murmurs, encouraging another shuffling step forward. 

Aziraphale groans weakly in response. 

They need to get somewhere safe. Where is safe? Crowley can’t think straight, blessed bollocks to everything! All he can think about is Aziraphale’s wheezing breath in his ear and the smell of rusty blood coming from Aziraphale’s head. Crowley can feel the panic rising within him, thoughts of Aziraphale discorporating or someone from Hell finding them choking his brain with gibberish. 

No. He needs to be calm. Or at least, calmer. Crowley forces himself to take a deep breath, filling his chest and holding the air. The smoke from the fire is grounding, hot in his lungs, and Crowley lets it loose again with a heavy exhale. They need to get out of range in case the armory explodes again, and then they need to find a room. Crowley can do that.

* * *

In the end, Aziraphale’s injuries determine what “out of range” of the armory entails. After several streets, Aziraphale’s breathing gets alarmingly raspy and uneven, and he starts to lean on Crowley so much that Crowley worries about his ability to stay upright. 

“Just a little farther,” Crowley coaxes, holding Aziraphale as he gasps for breath. “I’ve got you.”

Crowley arbitrarily picks the nearest building and begins dragging Aziraphale towards it, hoping against hope that they’ll be rooms inside. Thankfully, his luck does seem to be holding, and there’s rooms to let upstairs. With a quick “notice me not” curse on Aziraphale and himself, Crowley heads toward the stairs in the back.

Aziraphale is flagging even more now, breathing labored as Crowley practically drags him towards the back staircase. They just need to get to the stairs, and then get _up_ the stairs, and then -

The staircase looms before them, narrow and steep. Fuck, it might as well be bloody Everest. Crowley groans and leans Aziraphale against the wall, letting them both rest before attempting their next obstacle. How is Aziraphale doing? Hopefully not too terribly. 

Crowley glances down, peering at Aziraphale where he’s sandwiched between Crowley’s chest and the wall. Bollocks, Azirpahale doesn’t look like he can make it up the stairs. His face is covered in sweat and sickly pale, which makes the blood stand out even more where it’s trickling from his ears. His whole body is shivering, ripples of exhaustion making his hair tremble on his blood stained scalp. Aziraphale’s eyes flutter as Crowley watches, like he isn’t sure if it wants to be conscious or not. 

Unfortunately, unconsciousness isn’t an option for Aziraphale. Crowley needs him at least semi-conscious to get up these stairs, as there’s no way Crowley can get him up there when he’s dead weight. Not without a major miracle at least, and the last thing he wants to do is draw attention to himself. 

Perhaps he could get Aziraphale up the stairs piggyback? That might work, if Crowley’s thighs can hold up. He’ll crawl at this point. With a quick shimmying maneuver, he twists himself so that Aziraphale is leaning against his back instead of his chest. 

“I’m going to carry you up the stairs, okay?” Crowley says, pulling Aziraphale’s arms over his own shoulders. “I just need you to hold on, I’ll do all the work.”

Aziraphale’s arms are limp. “Aziraphale, please, just hold on for me,” Crowley begs, feeling pushed past his limits. “Angel,” Crowley whispers. 

Aziraphale twitches. 

“Aziraphale, I need you to hold onto my shoulders, or at the very least clasp your hands. Can you do that?” Crowley guides Aziraphale’s left wrist into the grip of his right hand and tries to ignore the blood that’s smeared on both their palms. Slowly, Aziraphale’s hand closes, and Crowley takes the movement as consent to lean forward and shift Aziraphale’s weight further onto his back. Something grinds in Aziraphale’s chest as Crowley moves and Aziraphale wheezes out a whimper in response. 

“I know, I know, shhh,” Crowley says. “It’ll all be over soon, don’t you worry.” He leans further, takes Aziraphale’s thighs in hand and all of Aziraphale’s weight, then determinedly mounts the first step. And then the next step. Aziraphale’s head lolls as their combined weight shifts from side to side, and Crowley can feel the drying blood from his head wound touching his cheek. The cold damp makes him want to gag, but he focuses instead on mounting the next step, and then another. His thighs are burning and trembling. Two more steps, and Crowley decides to stop counting. 

But finally, there aren’t any more steps. Crowley stares at the floor, then stiffly lifts his head to find the nearest room. He shuffles over to it and pushes the door open with his head. It’s blessedly unlocked and empty, so he painfully makes his way to the bed and unlocks his hands to let Aziraphale down. Aziraphale seems to take this as a cue to release his own hands, and it’s only Crowley’s quick thinking that prevents him from cracking his head on the wall.

With aching, trembling arms, he maneuvers the rest of Aziraphale onto the bed, then stares dumbly at him. What does he do now? Should Aziraphale lay on his side? His back? Does Crowley attempt to finish healing his skull, or discover what kind of damage the blast had done to Aziraphale’s chest? Should Crowley try and heal him at all? Someone would notice that large of a demonic miracle unless he wards the room. Crowley is drowning in choices, and he doesn’t know which are the right ones. He can feel himself panicking again, Aziraphale’s bloodied face serving as a catalyst to make his breath go high and tight -

Crowley sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slow, forcing himself to calm. He just needs to make a new list. First on it is to figure out why Aziraphale isn’t waking up. With a gentle hand on Aziraphale’s ankle, he sends a surface ping through Aziraphale’s corporation. Two broken ribs, some internal bruising, and some minor brain contusions. That’s not terrible. Aziraphale’s a sturdy angel, he’ll be fine in no time. Once he has a little more juice, Crowley’s fairly certain Aziraphale will heal on his own as long as he’s out of harm's way.

Second on the list… What’s second on the list? Leave and try to draw away demons that are topside? Ward up the room and hide? A wave of fatigue crashes over him and forces his decision for him. No, he’ll stay here. At least until Aziraphale wakes up. 

Wait. That’s a terrible idea. What would Crowley even say to Aziraphale? _Sorry about asking you to get me Holy Water a few decades back, and sorry for ignoring all your telegrams and calling cards. Also, don’t mind me at your bedside, I just happened to be in the area when you got yourself blown to bits, so I figured I’d do you a favor._

Crowley doesn’t think so. Maybe he _should_ leave now. No awkward apologies, and no uncomfortable silences. Crowley attempts to stand, then wobbles comically. Right, never mind. Apparently, he’s going to be spending the night after all. That’s fine. He’ll take a little nap, and leave in the morning before Aziraphale wakes up. It won’t be a problem. 

Crowley crawls up onto the bed and lays his head down, sparing only a brief glance at Aziraphale’s face. He looks slightly better now, or maybe that’s just Crowley’s imagination. Crowley will only be asleep for a few minutes, and there’s no way Aziraphale will wake up before him…

* * *

The next morning, Aziraphale wakes up to a warm spot beside him on the bed and the faint scent of… something familiar. His head is too cloudy to pinpoint exactly what it is at the moment, but the scent is calming nonetheless. But why had he woken in the first place? He doesn’t normally sleep, but he vaguely remembers the armory and trying to evacuate civilians from the area. Then, there was a loud noise and incredible pressure and then - nothing. He moves to check his corporation, but his head explodes with pain. The extreme agony forces him back onto the bed, panting, and it’s only after several moments that he can even think about moving again. When the agony subsides, he carefully touches his head and is met with crusty hair and a slowly healing skull fracture. He heals it with a blink, then finds himself dizzy with the expenditure of power. 

What had happened last night to leave him so weak? Perhaps he’d been caught in a blast of some sort? And then a good samaritan had brought him back to this room to recover? How very kind of whomever it was. 

The scent is stronger now, and Aziraphale finds himself distracted enough to close his eyes and try to identify it. It seems to be strongest on the pillow next to him, and he buries his nose there to try and puzzle out the notes. It seems to be a mix of sandalwood and … sulphur? What a curious scent for a human to wear. It almost reminds him of Crowley, but they haven’t spoken in decades. The sulphur scent was likely residue from whatever blast had knocked Aziraphale unconscious in the first place. 

As Aziraphale lets himself sink further into the scented pillow (he does not snuggle into it), he lets himself dream. Dream of a version of this event where Crowley had rescued him and stayed through the night, waking him in the morning with a worried brow and a cup of tea. A version where Crowley hadn’t asked for the one thing that could destroy him two decades ago, and the two of them still met for dinner and drinks. 

Aziraphale’s chest hurts. It’s probably from the broken ribs he hasn’t yet healed. Or perhaps the cruelty of reality that he’s living in. No tea, no dinners, and no Crowley. What a terrible mess. But it can’t last too much longer. Crowley will come around in another decade or two. Aziraphale just needs to be patient. And if, while patiently waiting, Aziraphale pretends that a certain demon had rescued him from an explosion, no one needs to be the wiser.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this little one shot! I have another story written for this series for prompt 22, but I might crank some other ones about depending on how the muse inspires me. Make sure to subscribe to the series or my author page so you don't miss any!


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